


Original Sin

by FickleFriend



Category: Kuroshitsuji (2014), Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-22 02:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16589423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleFriend/pseuds/FickleFriend
Summary: In Michaelis tradition, the young Sebastian joins Scotland Yard and develops an expertise in undercover operations. As a rising star on the force, Sebastian stumbles upon a sensational murder, intricate deceptions, and a mysterious noble. His investigations lead him deep into London’s sordid underworld. Rather than retreat from darkness, he seeks knowledge to sate his curiosity at any cost.Parallel Universe 19th Century, in which Sebastian is human.





	1. Lycoris

Sebastian tucked his hair back, straightened his gloves, and prepared to use a new approach. His opponent stood stoutly with a stance too wide to be well-mannered. Soap suds formed baroque structures on their way down her apron as she studied him with detached curiosity. Seizing this opportunity, he took a step closer and lowered his voice, keeping it soft but still decent.

“Miss Flora, was it? It’s such a shame you’re kept hidden here. I’m sure a flower such as yourself would much rather bloom in the wings of an opera house or dance under the brilliant light of a ballroom, in the arms of a stranger.”

Rather than blushing, the woman standing in her doorway looked resolutely unimpressed. The vain pressure of worry slipped past a valve. Was she a particularly formidable woman or had he simply gone out of practice since his undercover stint? Neither explanation was pleasing. Eight months surrounded by aggressively heterosexual men who simply took what they wanted when they wanted wasn’t helpful experience in developing the subtle arts. He recalled those hedonistic scenes with distaste. Still, he was probably more offended than he should have been.

“An event like this doesn’t come to Whitechapel often. Why not take down those sheets and you’ll have yourself a private box to yourself? I imagine the view will be quite _pleasing_.” He plucked a small carnation from the planter resting on the bannister and tucked it behind her ear. It did not take much embellishment on his part. She was rather comely past her knotted hair and sodden apron, not stunning, but comfortable to look at. She possessed a full-figure, toned arms, and a heart-shaped face that pinked prettily at the light brush of his fingers over the shell of her ear.

The young woman narrowed her eyes, aware of what he was doing but falling for it nonetheless. That worked just fine for him. Seduction was often more potent this way, as it gave the illusion of control. She slipped past him deliberately so that their shoulders brushed and gathered her laundry while Sebastian continued to face the open doorway.

Whitechapel was unfairly maligned. The area was by no means wealthy, but the district was mostly lawful middle-class, and her respectable apartment reflected this. Her rooms were relatively bare in furnishings but plenty of knick knacks collected dust on the walls and surfaces. The bed was tucked in the corner, and there was a single couch, chair, coffee table, and lamp. A paisley shawl was draped across the one window, a poor imitation of those imported from the Orient that lined the varnished parquet in a gentlemen’s sitting room. It was a rather fanciful ambition.

He found momentary amusement in the wooden cat doll perched on a stack of books. He could just make out the titles to be gothic romances, popular with many women these days. These were the same ones Grell used to hide under his pillow in their school days. Sebastian never told Grell that he saw those on the first day, as it had been amusing to watch the nervous freckled man fret every time he returned from classes earlier than expected. With his knowledge of those novels, he’d not been wrong with his approximations of her secret fantasies and smiled a little to himself. She was rather cute in trying to pretend that a chance meeting with a dark haired stranger wasn’t exactly what she wanted.

She moved slowly, displaying a kind of cheeky reluctance. With the still damp sheets held to her bosom, she returned to her previous post. She now bore a more relaxed stance.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at.” The corner of her mouth lifted into a smile. She was absently stroking the flower nestled in her flaxen hair.

“I would never,” he gasped playfully. He did not hide his examination of her rooms and she guessed at his thoughts.

“Surprised I read?” She crossed her legs at her ankles, leaning on the doorframe.

He smiled. “Not at all.” It appeared to be a point of pride for her and she noticeably brightened on this topic. The lines on her face softened and she now appeared closer to her true age.

“Studying to be a midwife, I am. Love small creatures of any kind, you see.” Her accent was rich, but not unpleasant. She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “You could always step in the front door for a bit.” His red eyes widened at that, surprised by her bold invitation. It contradicted his impression of her when she had refused to remove the sheets on account of his uniform or accept civilian compensation, which was really just an unofficial police budget for petty bribes.

He savored the tension in her ruddy cheek as she awaited his answer, though whether he acquiesced or not would be based solely on his personal whims, and would not mean victory or defeat on her part either way. For now, he was keenly aware of the time eating away at his careful schedule.

“That is a very admirable ambition. With the renovations on the London Hospital I do hope you find success soon.” At his praise, she smiled a little despite herself. “Please excuse my impropriety as I should not have looked into your rooms. Your invitation is tempting, but I am unfortunately still on duty and must return to my post. I do hope you enjoy the ceremony,” he declined politely, deliberately misunderstanding her offer and not looking sorry in the least. He implied his flirtatious behavior had not been in service to his occupation. With no response from her, he nodded once before making to leave.

He’d walked two yards before the sound of her voice drew his attention. “I know your sort and it ain’t likely, but keep the option on your mind, would you? I’m not as much of a flower like you says.” She was cleverer than he initially gave her credit for and so he left her a devilish smirk as a parting gift.

With this household, he’d successfully finished demanding, bribing, and seducing the last of the residents on the fourth floor to remove their laundry from the clothes lines. All of this wasted effort so that the noble lords and ladies who would attend the reopening ceremony for the London Hospital renovations would not have to scandalize their eyes on damp sheets. The bout of fainting from such a shock might just weed out the nobility’s hereditary weakness. Darwin’s theories did have their uses at times.

He paused at the steps and tugged at a delicate chain to reveal a peculiar pure silver pocket watch. A quick glance reassured him that he was on schedule. So he allowed himself a moment to rest against the banister. Reveling in the refreshing breeze dancing along his coat collar, he felt the itch to smoke and indulged in the thought of the relief it might bring. It was a disgusting habit he had picked up in his last assignment. Sebastian was a patient man however, and shoved the urge away, though not without some difficulty. He still had his aesthetics.

Over the next few hours, his uniformed colleagues would set up cordons to keep out the common folk and inspect the various plants brought in as decoration. They were meant to be stately, but was as flattering as harnessing a prize sire to a half-ruined ox-cart. After the first hansoms arrived, the constables made themselves scarce. Sebastian traded his trademark black for white and snuck in among the patrons.

The normally gray skies of London in mid autumn were graced by an unseasonably cold wind that swept away industrial smog in favor of a soaring blue. The white sun settled low like fog over the courtyard and brought about the same disorientation as the latter. Against this backdrop, wealthy aristocrats, businessmen, and philanthropists held onto their hats and attempted not to shudder in their crisp white suits and skirts. Hidden among this crowd and dressed in an equally fine tailored suit he rarely found occasion to wear, Sebastian Michaelis scanned over the parasols of the noble ladies diligently for any signs of criminal threat.

He possessed an aristocratic bearing that allowed him to blend in fluidly, making him a logical choice for the task. But Sebastian preferred to be near the VIPs in attendance on the stage, where the proximity would allow him to perform his job more effectively. Unfortunately, his handsome features were drawing too much attention regardless. His dark looks implied a more unsavory character, but his goals within the Yard remained unchanged.

He tugged on his white gloves in annoyance. The static-inducing cloth could get in the way of his draw. He preferred knives and swords to pistols. They were more instinct than technique and thus far more reliable.

Still, this was preferable to arguing over laundry. When the Assistant Commissioner had said “better to ease back into it. I don’t like you always on dangerous undercover jobs. Why not take a rest and join the men for a routine security check,” he wasn’t imagining this level of asinine.

It was a mundane ceremony, not well publicized. There was a single reporter from one top publication, the rest were third rate. One, as far as he could tell, wasn’t even associated with a publication. His sloppy dress, unlabeled equipment, and unbridled excitement were the hallmarks of a desperate freelancer.

On the other hand, he thought he recognized the man for _The Daily Telegraph_ from Scotland Yard’s annual promotion ceremony. The dark haired man was a protegee of Thornton Leigh Hunt, although Sebastian still couldn’t figure out why. He was the stiff sort, as in six hours after the onset of rigor mortis, while Mr. Hunt couldn’t be more flamboyant and still keep himself outside a sanitarium. He was sure that at some point the latter would be sentenced to hard labor for moral decadence. Not that he cared for sexual perversions in themselves, Sebastian simply disliked that Queen Victoria stuck her fingers so far into her subjects’ romantic inclinations despite her not having shown her face in the two decades when crime was rotting the city.

He thought back to his discussion with the Merchant Lau at that same event on the current stakes of bets on whether the woman would appear at this year’s Parliament Commencement. But games were no fun without danger, and that came from uncertainty. Everyone, rich, poor, young, and old knew she disliked Gladstone.

The figure he recognized suddenly stiffened and whispered something into the camera-operator’s ear. He then turned towards him as if he had full knowledge of who and where his observer was. The green-eyed man met his gaze and narrowed his eyes haughtily as if he were some distasteful creature. Yes, after a closer look Sebastian confirmed that the corpse was indeed somewhere between two and six hours post-onset of rigor mortis. Amused, he inclined his head politely. As intended, this action incensed the man further. Rather than show any semblance of human emotion, he pushed his glasses up the tall bridge of his nose and regained his composure. And there went his entertainment.

This was no routine security check as the Assistant Commissioner described, rather the whole affair was overly secured. His mind ran through the debrief from his undercover assignment still waiting to be written and the coroner’s report that had yet to be investigated. This type of opening ceremony normally required the support of a half dozen constables, not the three dozen assembled today. If not for Lord Moreton’s financial influence, they would not have entertained this arrogance.

The crowd slowly turned toward the stage, guided by each other’s cues like a practiced school of minnows. Sebastian did the same, but was distinctly irritated that the movement rendered the crowd behind him unwatched. Despite knowing the scene was filled with other officers at various vantage points, he only truly trusted his own ability.

Lord Moreton raised his hand solemnly and cleared his throat. The assembled audience quieted their polite chatter so that only the shutters of cameras could be heard above the far away din of overhead seagulls and town life. A lady dressed in a delicate white lace frock beside him scoffed at the clamour everyday business permeating the square. As she reached for the perfume satchel within her coat, she caught Sebastian’s wine colored eyes and evidently presumed his attention had been of the romantic nature. His dark eyes and elegant smile generated frequent misunderstanding. Her lashes fluttered low and the grimace was replaced with a charming smile. He momentarily considered flirting with her out of pure habit, but easily refocused himself on the task of observing the audience.

She petulantly shrugged off the coat her butler had replaced over her shoulders at his silent rejection but could not hide the desire lingering in her eyes. He scoffed at the transparency of this breed of human, full of indulgence and not one ounce of genuine sympathy for the causes to which they donated their fortunes. Years later and he was still amused by the lengths to which nobility went to imitate charity when they could barely stand the smell of Whitechapel, the better part of East End, without smelling salts and rosewater.

“The assembled Lords and Ladies and gentlefolk of great esteem, I thank you all today for attending the opening ceremony of the London Hospital renovations. Your Christian patronage has made possible expansions to the South and East Wings of the hospital, allowing for improved pediatric and epidemiologic care for the unfortunate.”

His speech was irrelevant to the job and dry in any case, so he withdrew his attention. The close social connections within philanthropic circles aided his assignment, as it was relatively easy to identify any persons others were not well acquainted with. A bit further to his left, an overfed couple wearing extravagant brown furs revealed themselves as part of the nouveau riche. Meanwhile, they pretended they were not affected by the snubbing from the established elite. Quite a regular occurance.  

In the back, his colleagues shepherded out the rabble attempting to take a shortcut from the meat markets to their homes. He made eye contact with his senior who was refusing blood sausage from a middle aged woman and failing to pretend he wasn’t well acquainted with the residents of this area. He smirked humorlessly at the efforts, knowing that it would likely shock his colleagues to know that the worst parts of the neighborhood had once been his home too. Especially while he was now known as the Prince of Scotland Yard. Still red in the face, Abberline flashed him a heartbreakingly sincere smile and made an obscene gesture, pointing towards the woman who shrugged off another article of clothing to catch his attention.

He sidestepped the falling accessory with ease. Unwilling to deal with this nuisance, he moved away from the woman and towards the crowd at the side of the stage. The Baron of Ducie was finishing his speech and accepted the applause soberly, as per the current fashion. He then introduced an honored guest to accept a pair ceremonial scissors for the final ribbon-cutting. A striking woman dressed in a doctor’s garb stepped from the shadows to join Lord Moreton. She was approaching middle age, but miraculously retained her youthful charm and energy. Even the professional white frock couldn’t hide the vibrant shock of red in her hair and dress. Her gait was confident and flirtatious. This woman was aware of her charm and reveled in the attention the crowd afforded her. As she received the oversized scissors from Lord Moreton, there was an odd flash of red reflected on the outer edge of polished metal.

With those in attendance all dressed in white, there wasn’t a single object that it could have originated from. His blood began to rush before the thought of suspicion even formed in his mind. With so many of Sebastian’s peers called in attendance, perhaps Lord Moreton already suspected? A quick glance told him none of the others had been alerted. Constables do not survive in the mob based on experience but on instinct, and at that moment, instinct took over.

He turned toward the buildings surrounding the hospital courtyard, nerves raw and senses overstimulated. Eliminating the pharmacy and adjacent apartments for the impossibility of their angle, only the two taller residences remained. He stared blankly at the fluttering of white sheets on the fourth floor, his floor. It was wrong, like returning home and knowing something had been touched, shifted, removed by foreign fingers. No, they should not have been there. Just a few hours ago he’d seen to that himself! He focused on the door with the greatest obstruction.

White sheets clipped neatly over the lines. Folded evenly. Soap suds gone. Not a wrinkle in sight. The bottoms swept along the banister. Carnations sagged limply under the wet cloth. Stems drowned under the curtain of water. The icy wind whistled, and there! The glint of cold sun on a rifle scope was unmistakable.

With no more need for pretense, Sebastian pushed through the crowd with unearthly speed and strength. The surprised hiss of offence drew the attention of his colleagues on stage and they sprung into action, reaching for the Lord. Perceiving danger, Lord Moreton froze. As Sebastian leapt up the stairs, he met the red lady’s gaze. The fierce wind burned his cheeks. His tailored trousers chafed at the knee. His holster rocked against his ribs. Though their eyes only met for a split second, the absolute terror was unmistakable. The scissors in her hands fell with a clatter. She stumbled backwards and reached for Lord Moreton.

Then two gunshots.

An explosion of magnesium powder burning the image into permanence.

Shock filtering through the genteel crowd.

The frantic struggle to pull Lord Moreton into the shadows of the building.

And in this sea of stark and sterile white, a brilliant crimson red bloomed.


	2. Spark

The next few moments were a blur. The cameras were blinding in the already too bright sunlight. The tall buildings surrounded the valley of the square, leaning in as if it were the maw of some ancient beast. The wind settled into a low static.

Sebastian was vaguely aware of screams in the crowd and constables shouting to prevent guests from trampling each other as he knelt by the victim’s side, knees mired in slowly pooling blood. Blood ran towards him in rivulets and he saw a distorted reflection of himself in it. In death, her rouged lips were set in a smile. He pulled a glove off and uselessly pressed his fingers to her nostrils to check for signs of life, even though it was obvious the projectile had gone clean through one side of her head to the other and was now embedded in the recently restored marble column.

The bullet left ugly evidence of violence on the structure’s facade. Bandaging the area wasn’t going to eliminate that which hid just beneath the surface.  

Behind the now destroyed pillar, Lord Moreton cowered under his arms before his colleagues thankfully shoved him further inside the structure. So the second shot also missed its mark. He was a lucky man to have escaped death twice. Satisfied with his examination, he moved to stand when the sudden heat from a photograph caused him to flinch reflexively.

When he turned, he was faced by none other than those vivid green eyes. The intensity of his unwavering gaze left behind a strange aftertaste as if the other man knew something he did not. Established procedure dictated that no image that may interfere with an investigation could be printed without prior approval. No affiliated journalist would risk losing a valuable long-term relationship with the force over a one-time sensational photo. At least, no sane journalist. Sebastian conveyed the command silently and instead received a vague threat held between the unpleasant line of his thin lips. It was undeniably audacious to try to blackmail an inspector. He couldn't deny that he was curious about what reason he would have to risk a promising career as protege of one of the top newspaper moguls of the day. In order for this threat to work, he had to have known Sebastian maintained a low-profile for his assignments, that he had an interest in preventing his face from ending up on a front-page feature. Targeting him was no accident. 

A hot stab of shame quickly jarred him from this foolishness. There was no time to waste when the assassin might still be in the vicinity. He pulled away from the woman in red and waved the constables frozen at the edge of the crowd to him. The confident directive served to shock them from inaction. It didn’t matter that right now he was only an inspector and had never spoken two words to them, only that he was the one person who appeared to know what to do in this moment.

* * *

The others were occupied with evacuating the guests, and it looked like he would to be the first to reach the apartment. At the top of the stairs and wanting to get a better view of the situation, he stopped to listen for sounds behind the door. Absolutely nothing could be heard over the din of footsteps. With a finger to his lips, the circus behind him finally stilled.

Through the thick wood of the door, he detected a slight scratching. Then came the scrape of furniture against the floor and muffled sounds of struggle. Either the criminal was attacking the resident or making his escape. There was no time to lose. He threw his weight upon the door and it groaned against its frame. The second time, he kicked it open. The door flew off its rust red hinges and the chair that had been propped up against it splintered to pieces. His brain faintly registered the unmoving form splayed on the floor. The scratching sound came again from the window. Right now his primary concern was the figure flitting down the fire escape.

Sebastian tore the paisley from the window and waved the others to cut him off from the other side. Without sparing another glance behind him, he leapt out the window in one fluid motion. Using this momentum, he grasped the rails and tossed himself from one side of the steps to another. The descent produced a bacchanal symphony of metal as he gained on the suspect. The man was facing away, but his stiff posture was unmistakable. The man could surely sense him gaining.

Conscious of his approach, the man covered his face with the oversized cap he wore and pressed himself into the brick wall. No matter, he had him cornered between a pile of firewood on his left and a fire ladder and would discover his identity soon enough. Sebastian approached with the intent of forcing him to the ground.

That was why the first brick that flew at him took him by surprise, and he payed for it with a nicked ear. A thin thread of blood traced the line of his jaw. The next projectiles were, surprisingly  lethally placed, coming at various angles he imagined would be in the repository of a skilled cricket player. They were aimed at the weaker points, his face, neck, and gut. He let his muscle memory take over and was able to duck and weave through the moving minefield until the man ran out of ammunition. Each time he wound up for a throw, a small bone in his shoulder snapped back. That tell was enough to predict the trajectory, and it left an opening every time he released a brick.

When he made his last curved toss, Sebastian took advantage the opportunity to move forward. Instead a smoke bomb attached to the brick discharged on the cobblestone behind him, producing a thick veil of gray. He wondered when the man found time to secure the device without his notice. Unfortunately for the criminal, it was little more than a distraction, as its effect depended on it landing somewhere between the two men. Sebastian heard the man hiss in frustration. He threw a right hook and caught him square on the jaw and sent him falling down.

Rather than panic at this failure, the man scrambled on all fours and improvised by kicking over the stacked firewood, barely moving out of their way himself. The logs advanced on Sebastian with the inherited force of his kick. He quickly scanned his surroundings. Sebastian kicked up off the wall and reached for the ladder, which slid down with his weight. The impact of the ladder snapping into position rattled his jaw unpleasantly. He was almost impressed that the man eluded him for so long.  

Sebastian swung from his aerial position and broke the fall with a connected roll which placed him within arms reach. His long fingers caught the back of the man’s worn wool jacket. With a vicious tug on the fabric, he threw him on his back.

Normally the force of his throw would’ve immobilized a larger man for at least two seconds, but he’d focused all his energy in the left arm that came swinging for his ankles. The movement was wide and clumsy. All he needed to do was take a single step back and the man’s fingers only brushed on the slick, bloodied fabric of his right pant trousers. Blood bubbled at his lips and a satisfying groan sounded as he flipped onto his stomach. It turned out to be a poorly disguised distraction to buy time for the man to reach for a knife concealed in his coat pocket.

The action was a common streetfighting trick used by low ranking gang members. He almost wished they would get more creative. The older man struck for the tendon under his knee in a trained motion. Sebastian merely lifted his foot and brought it down on the weapon and fingers that clutched it before it found its mark, applying pressure to disarm him. The resultant moan was real this time as the man cradled his abused fingers. At this proximity, he could feel the frustration rolling in waves from the other. He felt his trouser pockets and remembered that he didn’t carry cuffs with him in his disguise. Using his jacket as a replacement would have to do for now.

So this then was the result of the routine security check the Assistant Commissioner placed him on. If his professional history was any indication, he resigned himself to a lifetime of cleaning up after others’ negligence. He leaned over to tie the man’s jacket sleeves together, like a neat present for the inspector in charge.

Without warning, both men were pitched violently back by a loud explosion. He instinctively let the overwhelming force carry him into a barely controlled roll with both arms up protectively over his head. The bomb left Sebastian’s ears ringing and balance affected. The fluid in his ears was wildly displaced. He felt the earth’s rotation and came to a bizarrely mistimed spiritual understanding of his position in the vast universe.

He regained his senses just in time to avoid slamming into the stone wall that ran behind the apartments. Sebastian skidded to a stop by dragging his right sole down in a wide arc so that he was now kneeling on his left knee, body resting on the heel of his right foot, and bracing on both hands for support. The natural pattern of his breathing simplified into a deliberate routine of inhales and exhales to ease the burning sensation as if his lungs had been calcified by hot ash. As he breathed, a sharp pain sang from one of his lower left ribs. He gently brought up a gloved hand to probe the area, careful not to exacerbate any injury he might have sustained. He knew what a broken body felt like and fortunately nothing seemed to be broken. The pain gave way to a dull sonorous ache. Anyone who caused real injury to him was either very talented or very lucky. He gave the man his begrudging respect.

It was difficult to see with the heat thick in his eyes. He lifted his head and peered through the cloud of dust, trying to ignore the artificial tears burning behind his eyelashes. A shadow slumped against the wall slowly took on a more corporeal form as the smoke cleared. He could now tell that other man was thrown against the stone wall while he had been cast back at a forty-five degree angle. The bomb must have been disguised somewhere along the back of the apartments. The fire escape had been torn from the facade of the building, and was now making a horrible screeching noise as it swung back and forth on a flimsy length of rusty metal along the brick. But the apartment was otherwise intact.

From their positions, it was obvious that the older man had born the brunt of the force. If the bomb had been the man’s accessory, he’d likely meant to pull Sebastian down with that left hook before detonating from a safer position. Sebastian just hoped that he wasn’t dead on impact. Such a condition would make him a challenge to interrogate.

Taking a deep breath, he shifted his joints and confirmed that, aside from the shock of the explosion, he was mostly unscathed from the incident. He began to hear whistle sounds from the constables he'd sent to cut the suspect's path from far off. They caused annoyance rather than reassurance. He wondered if they had decided to take a smoke break in the middle of the chase. Sebastian supposed he should be grateful they didn’t obstruct his efforts. At least it meant that the other side of the alley was secured. Sebastian stiffened as he saw the man stir and prop himself up against the stone wall. His left shoulder was dislocated from the way he cradled his arm and his exposed skin battered with bruises, but with the way his head had been thrown, how he was not currently bleeding out on the dull stone was incredible.

As if to answer his silent question, the man pulled that loose brown cap from his head to reveal a gray military helmet. His eyes were hidden underneath the wide brim of it, but a maniacal smile creased the lower half of a stubbled face. Now Sebastian was more than irritated at this turn of events. He understood now that the man had been trying to hide his helmet, not his face. The man’s movements had been undisciplined, but the careful calibration of his bomb was undeniable. It struck him suddenly that this man had intentionally avoided casualties with the bomb, while he’d killed the woman in the apartment callously. What’s more, he felt that his own life had never truly been in danger. With too many unanswered questions, he was ready to end the game.

In the distance, the shouts of his colleagues drew near. The pressure of time returned to him. He did not want to reveal any sign that might have others question his competence. The assailant popped his shoulder back into position in one experienced motion and began scaling the wall. Sebastian reached for his gun, but stopped when he saw that the knife the man had attempted to injure him with resting like an invitation at his feet. Strangely enough, it wasn’t military grade like his helmet but a cooking blade, one used for carving meat. As a culinary enthusiast, Sebastian gave his approval at the high-quality and expensive steel. It struck him that the man was an absolute patchwork of unusual traits stitched together in one incoherent mess. Partly entertained by the poetry of using the man’s weapon, he canted his arm back and tossed the knife with pinpoint accuracy. Through the cloud of smoke and ash, the blade found its mark.

The lamppost next to the climbing man exploded in a whirlwind of shards that fell in a rain of sharp heated glass onto his exposed face.

* * *

By the time his colleagues had arrived to cut the man’s escape route off, Sebastian was leaning against the stone wall, elegant as ever. Raven hair effortlessly framed the sharp angles of his face. The suspect was on his knees, doubled over from a solidly placed kick to the stomach, arms immobilized by his jacket tied around himself, and cap shoved in his mouth. Only upon closer inspection might an observer notice the blood trickling behind his ear, slight sway of his stance, and the minute lean of a man sheltering a bruised rib.

“Before the start of an event, examine the surrounding areas for threats closely,” was all Sebastian had to say on the matter before he handed custody of the suspect over to the late peers. He had more than fulfilled his responsibility as neither the investigator in charge, nor as a constable under their command, and suffered theirs.

He turned the corner and stopped against the brick structure to loosen his vest around the bruised rib, freeing extra space for his lungs to fill. As he did, he acknowledged the state of his clothing for the first time. The fine fabric was scratched up and hopelessly bloodied. He decided it was probably the right choice to take a quick detour before heading up to find the journalist and settle the matter.

The square was free of guests when he returned, and his fellow Yarders had set up cordons around the space. But crowds were beginning to form nonetheless. The shoppers from the nearby meat market and pharmacy gathered around to investigate the commotion. He leapt at the flash of red in the crowd but it turned out to only be the red hair of a lower class girl.

Abberline pulled him over as soon as he reached the temporary section set up in the hospital to treat the ladies who had fainted, which were many because it was the polite thing to do in a situation like this. At these times, Sebastian was reminded of his country’s strange emphasis on propriety before pragmatism. The women looked as fed up as the inspectors and nurses forced to comfort them, wanting nothing more than to head home. The man before him was exhausted and embarrassed at the same time, which was a strange combination to observe on a person. The first dulled his face, while the latter brightened the complexion. He had in his right hand some smelling salts he had been using on the affected ladies.

“I heard the explosion. Are you hurt?” He was eyeing the blood on Sebastian’s clothing with open-faced worry.

“What kind of inspector would I be if I couldn’t dodge a bomb?” Abberline looked skeptical for a moment, but it wasn’t in his nature to press a colleague directly, so he dropped the topic. Instead he searched a nearby chest and handed him a cloth bag.

Sebastian took the item from him. Inside were the clothes he’d neatly folded before the start of the ceremony. “Thank you for returning these.” He responded politely.

The man was watching him intently, concern on his brow, so Sebastian waited for him to spit out what had been stewing on his mind. Abberline pulled his brown felt bowler off and ran his hand through his hair roughly.

“Lord Moreton is convinced the shot was meant for him. He’s agitated. Spent the last fifteen minutes positively in a mania. Well, he’s probably right of course, but you know how things are. His influence in the Commons is incredible and the budget is tight enough as it is. Lord Randall himself is driving out in a hansom. It’s a nightmare for us to keep him patient until the Commissioner arrives.”

“Who do you have on him now?” He asked.

“We could only spare Jones and Gregson. Tried to tell him these were two of our finest inspectors but he wouldn’t be consoled. He knows Lord Randall is coming, but until then he wants the full force of the Yard at his side for protection. Wants us to keep him safe. There’s only so many of us. We’ve got to protect the other attendees and residents as well. Our responsibility is to the public’s safety.” Whenever Abberline was impassioned, he had the poor habit of giving speeches.

Undercover missions were mostly individual, as it was safer that way, so he didn’t often interact with the other inspectors or the constables. But he recognized the names. Jones and Gregson were unlike Sebastian and Abberline both. They weren’t nearly as capable as him, nor as sincere as Abberline. He supposed their only redeeming quality was the tenacity at which they hated each other. They were traditionalists who thought all truths would emerge if they beat the bush long and hard enough and could be counted on to find any opportunity to outcompete the other. It had worked well enough during their early careers and they became some of the most recognizable faces in the Yard, but their accomplishments stopped short a few years ago and they hadn’t moved up since. It was now more of an insult than a compliment to be so familiar to the constables and junior inspectors. Their story had become somewhat of an urban legend used to scare the fresh-faced recruits. 

Sebastian caught the unasked question. He excused himself to change into his usual outfit before turning towards the private resting room of Lord Moreton. His black garb served to disguise remaining traces of blood he had not been able to wash off sufficiently in the short amount of time.

It was obvious enough which room he was in from the low growling sounds coming through the door. The ladies who had been placed on beds near the private room were eyeing the door nervously. He knocked twice before entering, Abberline on his heels.

* * *

The room was longer than it was wide, which had the unfortunate effect of making the scene of Lord Moreton pacing the width of the room ridiculous, as he had to make an about turn roughly every three seconds. The inspectors Jones and Gregson had their hands extended outwards like bewildered relations trying to contain a disobedient child from the wealthier side of the family. There was only one large bed and bright window above the headboard in the spartan room. The pristine cotton sheets made it obvious that the man had not rested for even a moment.

He whipped towards him at the sound of the door opening. “You, there! Where is Arthur. Your man said he would be here half an hour ago,” he spat at Sebastian while eyeing Gregson pointedly. The older man’s bushy mustache accentuated the rage that captured his features.

Before he could come to terms with the intrusion, Sebastian stepped forward into a bow. “I am deeply sorry for the delay, Lord Moreton. I assure you, your safety is our utmost priority. I will answer your questions post-haste.”

His self-effacing and polite manner disarmed the man, who fell into confusion at if it was appropriate to upbraid someone with such graceful manners. The English gentleman bred and beaten in him won and he settled for a reluctant parlay.

“And you sir, are?” He asked imperiously.

Sebastian returned generously, “I am Inspector Michaelis of the Scotland Yard, at your service. I have apprehended the suspect and am perhaps the one best equipped to brief you on the matter.”

Lord Moreton’s mood noticeably shifted at this unexpected announcement. “I know you. You’re the Assistant Commissioner’s son. You accompanied him to Viscount Druitt’s event at the start of the season.” Both men were interested in art. It was only natural that their social circles would overlap.

“You humble me, Lord Moreton. He is a great man, as well as my teacher and benefactor. But I can hardly be considered his son.”

The man often enjoyed introducing him to his associates as his son as a kind of pastime he supposed. He seemed to find humor in doing so. There was certainly fondness, but the fact was that they did not share one name nor one house.

Abberline and the others hung back, waiting for the scene to play out, Jones and Gregson were both sullen with jealousy at the connection Sebastian had to their social superiors. His relationship with the Assistant Commissioner was an open secret at the Yard.  

Unexpectedly, Lord Moreton began laughing from his belly. “I can see why he’s always speaking of you. I’ll be sure to pass a word to Arthur when he arrives.” Sebastian didn’t doubt that he would. The Baron now seemed to him to be severe, yet judicious. He’d stopped pacing but did not move to sit.

“So? What have you learned from this man you apprehended? I heard a few of your men speaking of an explosion. Might I hear an explanation of the events from today?”

“The explosion was triggered by a bomb likely manufactured by the one we now have in custody. There was little damage to the surrounding structures and no injuries amongst bystanders. The man I apprehended was of about five and thirty years of age. Neither weapon nor disguise was found on his person at the time.“

Lord Moreton was the kind of man who appreciated straightforward responses and was the quintessential military man.

“What do you mean by disguise?”

“When I first spotted the assassin hiding on the fourth floor of the building across from the London Hospital courtyard, he was wearing a red coat. However, I found neither equipment nor costume on the man. Should the objects be stowed away in the room, we will find them and verify the identity of the man I captured.” He thought back to the lack of bloodlust in the man he captured and could not shake the inkling of doubt at his identity as the assassin.

After some time, he let out a heavy sigh that deflated his form. “The poor Lady Dalles suffered the bullet intended for me.” He finally sat down at the edge of the bed, pulling at his thick mustache sadly. “Should there be a plot behind this, we must find those responsible and deliver her justice.” He pronounced confidently as though he had not worked himself into a frenzy of fear for his personal safety only a few moments ago. It struck him as a strange thing to say when he’d just heard the capture of the primary suspect.

“Lord Moreton, is there anyone who you suspect?” Abberline, who had been quiet until now, asked suddenly. If it had been his choice, Sebastian would not have chosen to address it so directly, however he respected Abberline’s instincts.

He scoffed regally. “Political assassinations are rather common nowadays. The High Church isn’t as popular as it once was. The fact remains that I broke rank with the Conservatives on home rule. There’s no shortage of enemies.”  

There was a hint of accusation in his words as he implied the Yard’s failure at controlling the radical elements.

Abberline didn’t shrink, to Sebastian’s surprise. “We will bring the perpetrator to justice. Our best men will be assigned to this case and we will have a detail with you until then.”

“Yes, as it should be.” Lord Moreton nodded tiredly. “I won’t keep you men from your jobs any longer. Please see to the evidence. I will take a short rest until Arthur arrives.”

* * *

They left Jones at the door but headed out of the hospital with Gregson. The large man was visibly displeased at the outcome of Sebastian’s interruption. But he was actively avoiding eye contact with Gregson and instead searching for the reporter with glasses. The man nor his assistant were nowhere to be seen. No rest for the weary, he had no choice but to head up to the fourth floor with his companions in search of one elusive green-eyed stiff. This time, cordons had been set up and forensics was already examining the area.

“Hey you, Inspector Sir. What’s happened?” A middle-aged man dressed in a loose black day jacket poked out of his home and reached for Sebastian’s arm. Sebastian removed the offending touch with a gloved hand, concentrating to not break his pleasant smile.

“Mr. Browning, thank you for your cooperation on the matter of sheets earlier. I ask that you continue to assist the Scotland Yard. A horrid accident has occurred.”

The man paled at this. “Then Ms. Flora…” he trailed off.

Sebastian nodded solemnly. “We are securing the area. It would be safest for you to stay in your rooms and bolt the door.” It was a statement perhaps not entirely appropriate to say in this context. Sebastian was of course scaring the man unnecessarily. It was, however, a true statement. In the vast majority of circumstances, one was safest staying in a bolted room. This slight untruth was justifiable when considering that an inspector’s work was infinitely more difficult when having to deal with the curiosity, tears, gossip, and amateur detective work of the neighbors.

The weathered man pulled his hat into his hands and blew his snot into the brim of it. As if that had not been enough, he dragged his sleeve across his wet nose, spreading the fluid across his cheek. Sebastian glanced reflexively at the sleeve he’d touched.

“Yes, yes, of course Mr. Inspector sir. It’s just that we was so happy for Ms. Flora. Me and my wife had gone to thinking she’d finally nabbed a handsome young gentleman caller. She was always chattering about the hospital and nursing we’d thought she’d given up on domestic happiness. Didn’t even suspect a thing, and now, now she...” He blew his nose loudly again.

He ventured a glance at Abberline who gestured at the door of the dead woman. He lifted up five fingers in response. Since he’d caught the man at such an awkward time, he figured he might as well continue the questioning. Sebastian snatched up a pen and pad from a surprised constable skirting his form on the narrow walkway with a smooth “thank you, sir.”

“Well then, if you don’t mind I can take your account now. So you can peacefully return to your wife and grieve without anxiety over when this incident may be recalled again.”

A puzzled frown then creased Mr. Browning’s face. “But I awlready gave my account to the inspector wi' spectacles...if I can remember, goes by Spears.”

Threatening an inspector was one thing, and impersonating one was another. This Mr. Spears he’s been hearing so much from today was quite the intrepid reporter. Someone who clearly knew more than he was letting on. This case that was not his responsiblity, but his interest, suffice to say, was piqued and his curiosity was not so easily sated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are fuel for the soul. I've written quite a few short fanfics in the past, but I've never had such a hard time keeping a character, well in character. Sebastian is truly a special soul. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is appreciated.


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